


The Four Gardens Of The Moon

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s08e17 Goodbye Stranger, Episode: s08e21 The Great Escapist, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 05:51:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4865447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hours have passed. </p><p>Forty hours, since the resounding crack of bone Castiel had been made not to react to. Forty hours, since Dean's knees hit the ground to Castiel's feet. Forty hours, since Castiel took God's word in his hands and it told him to run from everything he knew. </p><p>Forty hours, and he's running still.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Four Gardens Of The Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pirrofarfalla (singsilverlight)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pirrofarfalla+%28singsilverlight%29).



> For my dear friend Lexa :)

 

 

 

 

_a light in every window_

_and a road of thorns_

 

 

 

 

 

Hours have passed.

Forty hours, since the resounding crack of bone Castiel had been made not to react to. Forty hours, since Dean's knees hit the ground to Castiel's feet. Forty hours, since Castiel took God's word in his hands and it told him to run from everything he knew.

Forty hours, and he's running still.

His right hand is curled around a coffee cup, the warmth of the hot liquid inside warming the skin and bones of his vessel's hand. He tries not to focus on it, but there is little else to focus on. He has to fly again soon, but not yet. It would be interesting, to watch the people around. There are a lot of people. But Dean once told him people who don't know Castiel would be offended at his staring. There is no one here who knows Castiel. He raises the cup, takes a drink. It doesn't taste to him like it would to a human, but the warmth of it is oddly soothing. He shouldn't feel cold – he isn't able to – but there is an impression of absence at his core that he imagines is what being cold feels like.

The waitress gave him his first coffee 'on the house'. Maybe even his outer appearance is suffering from whatever he is experiencing inside. It's an unsettling thought, but as long as it doesn't prove disadvantageous he won't pursue it. For some reason, the thought of looking into a mirror makes him uneasy.

He sets the cup back down again, watches the swirling of the dark inside. If Dean were here, he could ask him to try the coffee and tell him if it's good. He imagines holding the cup out to Dean, the warmth of Dean's skin against his when he takes it. The coffee is very cheap. So Dean would probably grimace after taking a drink and then hand it back to Castiel, “No, Cas. Not really.”

There is not a lot of time left. The porcelain under his fingers is already not as warm anymore as it was a few minutes ago. He arranges the cup and the unused packs of sugar on the table to his satisfaction, and then he flies.

The next Biggerson's is somewhat less crowded. A lot of young people are there, mostly sitting in pairs of two. Castiel orders the same he's ordered at the previous eighteen establishments – coffee, black. Maybe at some point, he will say yes when the waiting staff ask him about milk and sugar. As of now, the routine feels somewhat calming to him. Idly, he finds himself wondering how Dean drinks his coffee. In the past, he wouldn't have hesitated to look into Dean's mind and forcefully pull forth any information he needed. Now, he would like to ask Dean. If he ever sees him again.

It's been over forty hours. At the counter, some machine is activated and it rattles and wheezes violently. Dean's breaths had been so loud in the crypt, struggling through the blood in his mouth.

His vessel's hands feel cold again. Castiel quickly wraps them around the cup, focuses his attention on the people in front of him. In one booth, two girls are sitting together on one bench, holding hands. In another, a boy and a girl are sharing a slice of pie, blushing every time their forks clink together. Castiel is reminded of another time, during the apocalypse, when he had been with Dean in a diner even cheaper than this one. The windows had been smeared and dusty, the sunlight slicing through them casting Dean in a gentle glow. Dean himself had looked haggard and dark despite of it, run ragged and exhausted. And yet he'd smiled when the waitress brought him a slice of pie, however dry and misshapen it looked. After a few forkfuls, he'd looked up at Castiel curiously, “You want one yourself?” He had shook his head, disinterested, and Dean had shrugged and looked away again. Looking back on the memory, Castiel wonders if the slump to Dean's shoulders hadn't only been exhaustion. If the smile would have returned to his face had Castiel said yes.

Castiel averts his gaze again. He wishes the warmth wouldn't so quickly flee from the cup. He could use his grace to keep it warm, but somehow that doesn't feel like quite the same. It's an odd thought. He tells himself his hesitancy stems only from being unwilling to take an unnecessary risk. Castiel listens inside himself for a moment. He hears the chatter of the people around, in the whole building, outside on the street. The whispers of their thoughts, intersected with the airwaves of mobile phones, snatches of digital data, police radios. Castiel is still ahead of his pursuers, but he cannot be too careful. He looks around just to be sure, but nothing strikes him as out of the ordinary. The waitress approaches his table, asking if he wants anything else with his refill.

Castiel means to decline, but what he finds himself saying instead is, “No, I am. I am waiting for someone.” He shifts in confusion at his own words, but the waitress perks up, a warm smile lighting up her tired eyes.

“Oooh, your sweetheart?”

Castiel stills and looks up to meet her expectant gaze. “Yes,” he answers, unsure, “My... sweetheart.”

He couldn't say why this is what he answers. The woman's smile grows softer, and she winks at Castiel before moving on to the next table. Castiel wraps his hands around the cup again, aiming to clear the disarray of his thoughts. It makes no sense for his hands to feel cold. He listens to the airwaves, but no angels seem to be near. The songs of several radios and music players merge together in his head, _another city falls just because a sea of change you can't like I am home again_. This world is very loud. It's only been forty hours. It's only been a couple of days. Dean had sounded desperate and sad the last times he'd prayed. Castiel dislikes hearing Dean sound that way. It makes no sense for him to miss Dean's prayers.

The cup is still full, but is has grown cold. He must have forgotten to drink it. At the counter, the waitress is throwing him glances, her mouth turned down with something that might be pity. Although he doesn't have to yet, Castiel flies the moment she looks away.

>

Three Biggerson's later, Castiel lands in one that's on the fourteenth floor of a skyscraper. Despite the late hour in this time zone, it's still open, though almost empty. The waiter eyes his trenchcoat with suspicion, but takes his order with crisp politeness. Something that Castiel identifies as Jazz is playing softly over the speakers. Across from him, floor to ceiling windows offer a view of the city beneath, its glowing lights like a badly aligned mirror image of the stars above. Castiel finds the sight calming, if strangely melancholy.

The waiter brings him his order and disappears again. Castiel is just about to raise the cup to his mouth when he becomes aware of movement to his right. He looks over to see a man sitting alone and slumped over in a corner booth, his head in his hands. He has short hair and is wearing a dark jacket that looks a little too big for him. His shoulders are quivering and his breath is coming out in gasps and quiet sobs.

Castiel looks around. The only other customers are an elderly couple talking quietly with each other and a couple of teenagers occupied with their phones. The waiter is over by the counter and seems busy avoiding even looking in the crying man's direction.

Castiel stands and moves over to the corner booth. The man doesn't notice. A coffee cup is sitting at his elbow, some of its contents spilled over the table. He has the heels of his palms pressed over his eyes, but still his tears are dripping onto the tabletop. The crinkled photograph of a young woman is crushed in one fist, shaking along with him. Castiel reaches out a hand to lightly touch the man's arm.

“Are you – ”

The man recoils from his touch violently, an agonized sob tearing itself from his throat. Castiel freezes, fingers closing around nothing. The man buries his face further in his hands, fighting to breathe through his crying. It's been more than forty hours. More than forty hours since Castiel escaped Naomi's control. More than forty hours since Dean flinched away from him, his litany of no,no echoing through the underground chamber. Castiel has to protect this tablet now. But this man doesn't know that. Castiel has no solace to offer him, and yet wishes he had. He stands there for a long moment, feeling lost.

The next time he stops, no one is crying. There is blood everywhere.

>

Castiel is falling too fast.

He crashes into the road, unable to keep himself standing. His mouth is filled with blood, it sends him coughing. And then he lies still, the gravel of the road digging into the skin of his hands and face.

The sky is dark above and the road empty and silent. Castiel doesn't know how long he lies there. His sense of Dean was going in and out with his waning strength, and he wasn't able to fly all the way. A few insects are chirping in the night. The gravel is wet, it must have rained recently. Castiel wishes he could turn around on his back. Stop the rough surface of the road from digging into his wound. Mostly, he wants to see the sky. He knows the sky is black tonight and starless. Maybe he hopes to be wrong. Maybe he wants to punish himself.

Once, he wouldn't have cared if the stars were visible at night. He didn't understand the humans emotional attachment to luminous spheres of plasma held together by their own gravity and appearing as bright points in the sky due to their immense distance from Earth. They were impressive as part of his Father's creation, but he watched humans stare at them with longing and melancholy in their hearts, and he didn't understand. He stood beside Dean in a shady and run-down motel room and watched his face fall when the night sky was clouded and black. The matter was a trivial one, so he didn't ask Dean about it. But his curiosity was picked, and so while he kept lecturing Dean on the Seals, he searched Dean's mind for something to explain his disappointment.

He didn't find it.

All he found was a flood of memories that made little sense to him in connection to what had made him search for an explanation in the first place. Dean's mother standing at a window with her three year old son in her arms, pointing at the full moon. The memory was fuzzy and unclear, and accompanied by a rush of sadness and longing. It was useless to Castiel. The next one was more recent, Dean and Sam sitting on the hood of their car, not talking, just watching the sky at night. There were several memories similar to that one, all equally pointless. Then, finally, a nine year old Dean sitting on a motel bed with thin and washed-out sheets, reading a children's book out to his brother. It says the stars go to sleep in the morning, and that's why one can't see them anymore. At their home, in the sky. Sam then asks his brother why they don't have a home but the stars do. Dean bites his lip and doesn't answer.

Castiel left his mind then. It seemed Dean's interest in the stars was just as arbitrary and misguided as that of other humans. Castiel turned his attention back to the matter at hand, irritated at Dean's distraction and apparent disability to let go of something so utterly irrelevant to their situation.

Now, Castiel knows the sky is black. He knows, even if he could see the moon and stars, he would still be as alone as before. He doesn't understand why, but he longs for them nonetheless.

>

Castiel has just managed to roll onto his side when the sound of a familiar engine cuts through the night air. His sense of Dean flares up weakly, like the muted pull of a magnet. His grace is concentrated on keeping him alive, and on healing him and his vessel. Castiel probably shouldn't be able to feel Dean's proximity at all.

The headlights reach him, and the car screeches to a halt, doors flying open. Dean's face is pale with shock when he calls out to Castiel. A single white smudge in the surrounding dark, faintly illuminated by the car's lights. There is something in his eyes that Castiel can't read. Despite his slightly unsteady gait, it's Sam who gets to Castiel first, props him up with a hand on his arm. “What happened, are you – ” Sam gasps when he sees the blood staining the coat and the torn shirt beneath. Castiel weakly pushes his hands away, “It will heal, I just need to – rest.” Sam looks unsure for a moment but then nods, “Right, yeah. Okay.”

Dean has reached them by then, but he's standing at Sam's back, not coming closer. He's not saying anything. Castiel finds he cannot raise his head and look him in the eyes. Sam either doesn't notice the tension in the air, or he misinterprets it. His hold on Castiel's arm tightens, and he turns halfway around, “Okay, let's get you up. Dean?” No reaction. Sam repeats Dean's name again, impatient, and finally Dean is jolted into action. He comes around to Castiel's other side, helps to heave him upright and to standing. Dean's hands on Castiel's arm are steady, and the warmth of his proximity is tangible even through Castiel's clothing. Castiel keeps his gaze on the gravel the entire time it takes them to limp awkwardly to the car.

“I got it, I got it. Sam, go sit down before you fall down.” Dean's voice is rough in his ear, his breath hitting the side of Castiel's face. Sam lets go of him, but before he can sack to the side Dean already has an arm around his waist, taking his weight. He turns them and deposits Castiel expertly on the backseat. The prophet is there too, fast asleep with his head resting against the window at an uncomfortable looking angle and a jacket thrown over his legs. Dean is pushing Castiel's torn and bloodied shirt out of the way, then hisses when he sees the wound. Abruptly, his head jerks up, angry bright eyes fixing Castiel with an intense stare. “Who did this?”

Castiel shakes his head, “It's not important now. Just drive.” Dean snorts, looks off to the side for a moment, a muscle jumping in his jaw. When he meets Castiel's gaze again, his expression is almost blank, and whatever he was feeling is now locked away behind his eyes. “Whatever. The bleeding has stopped, but this needs stitches.” Castiel draws in a breath, briefly closes his eyes. “I will heal. There is nothing you can do, Dean.” When he looks at him again, Dean has stilled. An expression flickers over his face, there and gone again before Castiel can decipher it. Dean turns his face away, coughs, grates out a “Fine.” Then leaves the backseat and slams the door shut behind himself without looking at Castiel again.

>

They drive. No one speaks. Castiel leans back against the headrest. He wonders how the prophet is able to sleep through all of this. He shifts on the seat. Even without the use of his grace, he can see Sam's condition has not improved since the last time he saw him. But Sam is choosing to go through this. From where Castiel is sitting, right behind the driver's seat, he can see the side of Sam's face, and the worried glances Sam is throwing at his brother. From the way the rearview mirror is positioned, Castiel can't see Dean's face. There is nothing to even indicate Dean's presence but a stony silence.

Castiel shifts again in a vain attempt to alleviate the pain from his wound, then stills when the movement only makes it worse. He has lost track of how many hours it has been.

“I have lost the tablet,” he says into the quiet.

A brief moment of nothing, then Sam turns around in his seat, eyebrows raised. “The _angel_ tablet? Who has it now?”

Castiel sighs, averts his gaze to look outside, though there is nothing to see.

“Crowley.”

Sam grimaces, looks briefly to Dean and then back to Castiel. “Damn. That, uh. That sucks.”

He looks to his brother again, frowning and with an expression of confusion on his face. Dean stays silent. Sam throws Castiel one last glance – Castiel can't decipher what's in it; if it's meant to be apologetic, questioning, or accusing. Then he shifts and faces more towards the front again, clears his throat. “Well, we're two down one to go.” He proceeds to give Castiel a brief summary of their latest findings. Castiel changes his position slightly, to be able to hear Sam better. Just enough to see Dean's hands clench around the steering wheel, the skin white in the dimness of the car.

>

It's dawn by the time they reach their destination. Sam fell asleep with his head resting against the window at some point. When the car stops, there is a long moment of silence, and then a sound from the front seat like Dean is dragging a hand over his face. Castiel draws in a breath, “Dean – ”

Dean pushes his door open like he didn't even hear Castiel speak. He walks around the front of the car, shoulders up at his ears and his gaze trained firmly on the ground. He rouses Sam by shaking his shoulders, steadying him when he drags himself out of the car with protesting noises. Outside, Sam batters Dean's hands away, exasperated, “I can walk on my own, Dean.” Dean watches him go with a clenched jaw. The sun has barely risen, everything is pale blue shadows and clinging night. Castiel's hands feel cold. Or maybe they just feel empty.

Dean wrenches the door open at Kevin's side, shakes the prophet awake. He blinks blearily and scowls, “Where the fuck are we?” Dean shakes his head, his expression a blend of impatience and worry. “Somewhere with beds. Come on, kid.” Kevin drags himself grumbling out of the backseat, shrugging into the dark green jacket he had been using as a blanket and that is at least three sizes too big for him. Apparently he is so weary he doesn't even notice Castiel, just shuffles past Dean and around the car without a backwards glance.

A beat, and then Dean asks, voice rough and strangely bland, “Can you get out there on your own?” Castiel looks up to him. Dean is leaning against the side of the car, his face turned away from Castiel and fixed on some point in the shadows. “I – ” He shifts, then hisses when a stab of pain goes through his middle. Dean slams the door shut, walks around to Castiel's side. The stony silence from earlier has returned, and yet his hands are careful and gentle when he directs one of Castiel's arms over his shoulders, curls an arm around Castiel's waist, fingers twisted into the fabric of his trenchcoat. Dean slows down when they're through the entrance and reach the stairs, adjusts his hold. Walking down the stairs is still painful. Dean's breathing next to him is deep and even. Castiel can feel the expansion of his rib cage on each inhale. Castiel is wounded and weak right now, but he will heal and be whole again eventually. It seems contradictory for him to take comfort in Dean's physical presence, when a human is so much more fragile than he is. When Castiel has always seen himself as Dean's protector.

A role he has, once again, failed to fulfill. Hours have passed, but he lost of track of them. Even in this, Castiel has failed. Dean is here, holding him up, but he is silent and withdrawn, his soul as closed off to Castiel as if he were deprived of all angelic senses. He thinks again of Dean in that shadowed motel room. Light years away from what he could only ever hope to observe from afar, but searching the dark for it anyway.

Castiel stumbles, and Dean tightens his hold to keep him from falling.

They've reached a hallway with several closed doors, equipped with numbers. For a moment, Castiel is eerily reminded of Heaven's endless corridors, even though the stone floors and the wood paneling of this place are nothing like Heaven's pristine and lifeless planes. Dean fumbles one of the doors open awkwardly, shifting Castiel's weight against himself. Beyond is a bare room with a bed, a nightstand with a single lamp. Dean turns them and deposits Castiel on the bed, eyes raking the room for something he apparently finds to be missing. He sighs, tells the floor “I'm gonna get some covers.” He's about to turn around when Castiel shakes his head, “I don't need them.” Dean instantly freezes, his features harden.

“Dean – ”

Castiel tries to keep his tone even, but his rising frustration is making it difficult. He doesn't know how to bear the feeling of Dean slipping out of his reach, even as he is standing right in front of him.

“Get some rest, Cas. I'll be – ” He makes a vague gesture towards the hallway, “somewhere.” With that he turns around and is gone. Castiel can do nothing but watch the stiff line of his back as he leaves. The slump of his shoulders, like he is still carrying Castiel's weight around with him.

>

Castiel doesn't sleep – he isn't capable of sleep. But he lies down on his back and closes his eyes for a while. He had found it unsettling to stare at the blank ceiling above. He isn't capable of dreaming. His thoughts can't be represented through images or sounds. And yet the blackness at the back of his vessel's eyelids transforms into vague shapes and twisting geometric forms, threatening in their lunacy.

He sits up, carefully. On the outside, his wound has closed, the fabric of his shirt knit back together and pristine again. But inside it is still raw, and not healing as fast as he'd expected. At least his sense of time has returned – it's been almost three hours since they arrived here. Several times, there was the sound of doors opening and closing and muffled voices, but now it's been silent for a while. Castiel stands, supporting his weight with a hand braced against the wall. The hallway is empty, all the doors closed again. He wanders past a library. The lights are on but no one is there. Castiel is tempted to investigate its rows, but it's not what he is searching for. He follows the sounds of clanging and cursing, comes to a stop at the entry of what appears to be the kitchen.

Dean is standing at the sink with his back to Castiel. There's a tray with a half-empty bowl of soup on it behind him on the counter. Dean is holding something under the faucet, filling it with water. Castiel enters, noting the immaculate surfaces and neatly arranged shelves. He likes this bunker. It's orderly, and a place to live and not just exist in.

He comes to a stand at Dean's left side. Dean's throws him a quick glance, his face set into a frown, even though this time it doesn't seem to be directed at Castiel. He's filling a kettle with water, a hot water bottle resting ready at the edge of the sink. “Kid's an icicle”, Dean mutters. “I guess being resurrected does that to you.” He turns the tap off, moves around Castiel to heat the water up at the stove. Without thought, Castiel follows him. Dean stares down at where steam begins to rise from the surface of the water, arms crossed over his chest. He is still wearing the same clothes as earlier, and there are dark shadows under his eyes. Castiel suspects Dean hasn't even sat down since they came here.

He reaches out a hand to touch Dean's shoulder.

“Can I – ”

Dean recoils from his touch like he'd been struck. Castiel instantly stills, arm raised and fingers touching nothing but cool air. Dean sucks in a breath and throws Castiel an unreadable look, some kind of emotion flashing through his eyes before the familiar shuttering off look happens behind them. He draws his arms tighter around himself and proceeds to watch the water boil like nothing happened at all. Castiel is staring right at Dean, and yet he is lost and blind. His wound throbs where the angel tablet was torn out of him. He had shoved it in, and forced there to be a space where previously there had been none. He hadn't been thinking about how the absence of something one has become accustomed to hurts in its own way.

Castiel bites his lip, watches Dean's hands as they fill the hot water into the bottle. “Gonna bring this to Kevin, then make a quick run. We're out of – ” He snorts, frustrated, “basically everything.” He turns without checking if Castiel has heard, and Castiel feels like he can't take watching Dean leave again, not with all this silence standing between them. His tone though is sharper than he means to, loud in the space between them.

“Dean, wait. Don't just – ”

Dean whirls around, eyes blazing. His voice is low and angry when he speaks, but there is a brittle quality to it, like he has to force the words past a constriction in his throat.

“Don't _what_? Don't just disappear into thin air?” He makes a disgusted noise and looks at the floor again, anywhere but at Castiel directly. “Yeah. Because you are the expert in that, right?” He sneers and clenches his jaw, turns around again and doesn't wait for a reply. Castiel wouldn't have one to offer him anyway. He had meant to apologize, but not known where to begin. He had searched out the words in his mind, but not found any that sufficiently expressed what he meant.

Castiel recalls the way Dean flinched away from him, the brief flare of panic in his expression. If he were human, he imagines a sour and heavy feeling would sink through his guts now. He balls his vessel's hands into fists, feels creation and destruction rise in his core, searching outwards for a threat but finding only empty space.

>

Without Dean's presence, the kitchen seems much colder. Castiel wanders aimlessly through the hallways and back to the library. He stands for a long moment in front of the giant telescope in the back. The craftsmanship is impressive. Yet he doesn't touch it, keeps his vessel's hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat. Standing for so long finally proves to be too much to handle for his still healing wound, and he retreats to the table with lore books chosen from several different shelves. He sits so that he has both the telescope and the doorway in his view, flips through the pages. There is the possibility that something in there might help them with the tablets and the trials, though mostly Castiel is doing it in an attempt to clear the storm of his thoughts.

It works for a while, until it doesn't.

There is the very likely probability he knows everything there is to know about the tablets, but that is was deleted from his mind, as were so many other things. He drags a hand over his vessel's eyes, exhales air he doesn't need on a sigh. The memories of Naomi's office lurk, but the pages under his hands and the soft overhead light keep him grounded in the present. He is about to continue browsing through an (inaccurate, if poetical) description of the Hanging Garden of King Sennacherib, when something else nudges at his mind, drawing his attention. Castiel reaches out tentatively, wary of his unsteady strength. Dean is like a small light gone astray in the surrounding dark matter. Frowning, Castiel stands with a hand braced on the tabletop.

He walks back up at the stairs and steps outside. The sky is overcast and gray. Dean's car is parked just a few steps away from the entrance, but there is no motion inside. Alarmed, Castiel opens the passenger side door and slides into the seat, ignoring the twinge of his wound. He already has a hand outstretched towards Dean and is about to touch his arm when he remembers himself, lets the hand hover awkwardly a few inches above Dean's shoulder.

“Dean?”

Dean is slumped over the steering wheel, face buried in his crossed arms. At Castiel's saying his name, he draws in a sharp and ragged breath, like he has water in his lungs. His shoulders are trembling with the effort, and he turns his face further away from Castiel.

“Dean, what's wrong?”

Castiel can't see anything suspicious in the car but three full bags of groceries in the backseat, and Dean isn't injured. Dean draws in another painful sounding breath, then sniffs and raises his head enough for Castiel to see his face, rubs furiously at his closed eyes. His skin looks blotchy, and there's wetness clinging to his eyelashes and shining tracks down his cheeks. Castiel stills, an ache spreading through his core like ice over a lake. “Eggs,” Dean grates out, his breath hiccuping around the rough drag of his words, “I forgot the eggs.” He breathes, shuddering, gaze directed forlornly at some point between the steering wheel and the dashboard. Castiel stares at him. “Sam likes this... disgusting egg white thing in the morning. And I forgot about it.”

He sniffs and turns his face away again, a tear descending down his cheek and dripping off his jaw to soak into his jeans. Castiel stays silent, at a loss at how to handle the nervous breakdown he is witnessing. He doesn't mention how Sam probably won't be in any condition to even notice the lack of eggs. “Dean,” he starts, softly, “You don't have to remember everything. You don't have to – ”

Dean whirls on him, eyes red-rimmed and angry. “Like you forgot _us_? Like you forgot you could _trust_ me?!” He snorts, shakes his head. “Sorry, but I rather remember.” With that he wrenches his door open and exits the car without another look in Castiel's direction. And there is that heavy sinking feeling again. Guilt, Castiel thinks. He twists a hand into the fabric of his trenchcoat, frustrated. Dean is gathering the bags from the backseat, cursing when something falls out and lands with a thud down in the footrest. Castiel steps out of the car and looks at Dean over the hood of the car.

“Dean, I'm sorry.”

Dean has succeeded in getting the bags out of the car. At Castiel's words, he straightens and leans against the side of the car, gaze directed somewhere off to his right. He looks like he is about to say something, then his jaw clenches and he shakes his head. He walks around the car and shoves one of the bags at Castiel without looking at him, “Come on.” As soon as Castiel takes it, confused, Dean briskly walks past him and back inside.

Dean has already placed his bags on the counter when Castiel enters the kitchen, and is busy arranging their contents into the shelf on the right. He throws a glance at Castiel when he puts his bag next to the others, then resumes his task. He doesn't look angry anymore, just tired. The tense line of his shoulders relaxes somewhat while he fills the shelf. Castiel might not know much about living as a human, but it seems to him that even three people don't need that much food at once. He very carefully doesn't mention this though, instead inspects a package of whole coffee beans. Briefly, he entertains the idea of telling Dean about the coffee beans and the goats, but then decides against it. On the front of the package, a man and a woman are sitting in a light-flooded kitchen. They're smiling at one another, each holding a steaming cup between their hands. It's a nice picture. Castiel remembers the crying man in the Biggerson's and thinks how foolish advertisements are.

Dean clears his throat, and Castiel looks up in time to see him gesture at the package in his hands. “You wanna try it?” Castiel is taken aback for a moment, then tentatively holds it out to Dean. He takes it and moves past Castiel to the coffee machine, which then proceeds to make a lot of noise. Castiel doesn't recall the machines at the Biggerson's being that loud. Maybe it's just because the spaces here at that much smaller, and Dean isn't talking. And Dean is standing too far away. Castiel might not even hear him over the roar of the machine. It's an unsettling thought.

Dean makes two cups, but scarcely touches his own. Castiel tries his and finds it much better than the one from the Biggerson's. Maybe that doesn't make any sense – he cannot actually taste it. But while the ones he had previously had either contained too many water molecules or rough particles than he thought necessary, this one seems to be balanced just right. The warmth of it seeps through the porcelain to his vessel's skin, and yet his hands still feels cold. Castiel is so preoccupied with that mystery, for a long moment he doesn't notice what Dean is doing. He looks up when the strange quiet registers with him. Dean is standing motionless at the stove, staring down at a pan gripped tight in his left hand. His expression is frozen, he looks like he is far away. Castiel frowns. Is just about to say Dean's name when there's a shuffle in the hallway and Sam enters the kitchen.

Sam's hair is in a disarray and he is still pale, but he looks somewhat better than when Castiel last saw him. He is still in sleeping clothes. Sam scrubs a hand over his jaw, smiles vaguely and is just about to address Castiel, when his gaze flickers over to his brother and then sharpens.

“Dean?”

The pan falls onto the stove with a jarring clatter. Dean is hunching his shoulders and turns his face away from both of them, makes a motion with his arm like he's rubbing at his eyes. Sam quickly walks around the counter, hovers awkwardly a few feet behind Dean's back, eyes widened. “Hey, you okay?” Dean turns halfway, his head hung low, doesn't look at either of them. His eyes are dry but red-rimmed. Something flickers over Sam's face before his expression transforms into one of carefully controlled worry. “You look beat, man. Get some rest.”

Dean's eyes briefly flicker over to Castiel, then he roughs out a quiet “Yeah.” He walks past them, a defeated set to his shoulders. Sam watches him go, then turns to look at Castiel. His expression is gentle, but there is something sharp and calculating to his eyes as they flicker from Castiel to the stove and back. Castiel can guess what he is going to ask. He shakes his head, a motion that he hopes will sufficiently express both his rising confusion and frustration.

“Dean made coffee,” he says. The package is still sitting on the counter beside them. Castiel scowls at the happy people on the cover, feeling irrationally angry at their ignorant bliss. Beyond the counter, the entry to the kitchen through which Dean disappeared seems a yawning chasm, a rip in space. Castiel puts his almost full cup on the counter. Its warmth suddenly feels wrong somehow, like a cheap replacement.

Sam is clearing his throat, “Right, yeah.” He doesn't really look convinced. After filling a glass of water at the sink, Sam turns back to Castiel. Awkwardly claps him on the shoulder, “Well. See you later, then.” He doesn't go though, instead hovers for a moment until Castiel understands he expects a confirmation. Castiel nods, “I see you later.” Sam seems to be satisfied by that. He raises a hand to his mouth in an attempt to conceal his yawn, then shuffles out of the kitchen. Castiel stays a moment longer. He stares at the stove, and the fallen pan. Then he moves the coffee package over to the machine and out of view.

>

The books are still in the library where he left them. Castiel comes to a stop beside the table but doesn't sit down. He feels rooted to the spot, and yet like gravity tells him he ought to be somewhere else entirely.

Castiel's gaze falls onto the last page he had been surveying. It's the crude drawing of an early interpretation of the Hanging Garden's architecture and construction. The short inscription tells how the King had water conducted to it from high mountains, and then built a garden towering into the sky with large trees on top of terraces. And so through the garden flowed streams of water as numerous as the stars of heaven.

Castiel turns around and doesn't stop until he is standing in front of the door he can sense Dean's presence behind. It isn't closed all the way, soft yellow light spilling through the cracks. For a moment, Castiel hesitates, then he pushes the door open. He is careful to return it to its original position once he is inside, so as not to disturb the dimness and quiet of the room. Dean is lying on his side on the bed, with his back to Castiel. He merely took off his shoes, and is lying on top of the covers, even though his shoulders are hunched like he is cold.

Castiel can't quite see his face. His own words rise unbidden in his mind, we were supposed to be their shepherds. And only hours before, the resounding crack of bone, and Dean's knees hitting the ground to Castiel's feet.

Careful so as not to disturb him, Castiel sits down on the edge of the bed beside Dean. It's for nothing though, because Dean has his eyes open and is staring at the opposite wall. He looks as weary as he did in the kitchen, and he barely reacts to Castiel's presence. Castiel is surprised therefore when he mutters, “Thought you were gonna stand there all day.” There is a strange undercurrent to his words though, and his voice is quieter than Castiel is used to. Dean sighs and then pushes himself up into a sitting position. Back resting against the headboard, one leg drawn to his chest and the other stretched out on the bed behind Castiel.

Dean clears his throat, “How you doin'?” He isn't looking at Castiel. Castiel observes him for a moment, his rumpled clothing, the soft lines of his mouth. He is only sitting about two feet away from Dean, and yet he longs to be closer.

He inquires, genuinely curious,“Why do you ask?”

At that, Dean finally looks at him, incredulously, mouth gaping open slightly. “Why do I – ” He cuts himself off, makes a frustrated sound. He fixes Castiel with an intense stare then, jaw tense. “Maybe because you've been through a bunch of _crap_ lately. Maybe because you got that fucking stone in your hands and then just _dropped off the radar_.” Dean's eyes shine feverishly now, furious. “Maybe because I am angry but I still – ” He stops, swallows back whatever he was about to say. “But I'm still your _friend_ ,” he finishes, quieter but no less bitter for it. Castiel stares at him. Dean turns his face away, cants his jaw to the side. He gets up from the bed in a rush, but he doesn't leave. Instead, he paces along the small space between the wall and where Castiel sits on his bed, hands raking through his short hair like he doesn't know what else to do with them.

Castiel looks down at his own hands, resting curled and empty on his knees.

After a long moment in which the sound of Dean's aggravated pacing is the only disruption in the space between them, Castiel answers, realizing, “I am – lonely. I suppose.”

Dean stops a few feet away from Castiel, shoulders dropping. He blows a breath out through his nose, makes a vague gesture towards the hallway. “Yeah, well, Sam 'n the kid are sleeping the sleep of the just, I guess.”

Castiel looks up, meets Dean's eyes. “That's not what I meant.”

Dean stills, eyes widening. He swallows, a flush rising to his cheeks. He is still too far away. For a moment, Dean's gaze flickers towards the door and his back tenses like he is about to turn away and leave. Castiel is just about to stand when Dean abruptly jerks into motion, moves towards Castiel instead of away from him. He sits down on the bed beside Castiel. So close, Castiel wouldn't have to reach far to touch his face. To rub at the skin under his eyes, trace the shape of his mouth.

To end their synchronous rotation and feel Dean's breath bloom in his own lungs.

Dean's gaze is lost somewhere on the floor, he is rubbing at his forehead, teeth gritted like he's in pain. Castiel doesn't dare touching him. He waits. Something is pulsing at his core, making his fingers press slightly into the fabric of his coat.

“Cas, you weren't there.” Dean's words are rough and quiet, shaking like he has to force them past his throat. There is wetness clinging to his lashes, and his hands are clenched and trembling where he's keeping them pressed against his thighs. “You just weren't _there_.”

Dean's voice breaks during the last word, he turns his face away. Ice stabs at Castiel's core again. He reaches for Dean, then holds himself back at the last moment. It doesn't matter how many hours it has been. Their rotation and gravity continued, but what had grown between them had been destroyed in the crypt, beaten down, pulled out by the roots. Castiel has hurt Dean, and it can not be undone.

Castiel's hand hovers in the empty space, frozen with uncertainty, and then Dean reaches back.

His fingers close around Castiel's hand, warm and soft, and he pulls it towards himself. Presses Castiel's fingers flat over his heart, curls over his chest. His eyes are squeezed shut, his jaw tense. Castiel can feel his heart beat, fast and erratic. He forgets to draw in breath. His skin is tingling, warming fast where Dean is touching him. Castiel wants for all of Dean to touch him, the desire for it sudden and blinding in its urgency.

“My hands are cold,” he blurts into the space between them, fear and longing pulling him in two different directions.

Dean sniffs, huffs out a watery laugh. He finally turns to look at Castiel, his eyes wet and red, but the corners of his mouth twitching upwards into a soft smile. “They're not, Cas. They're not.” Castiel stares at him.

He took God's word in his hands and it told him to run from everything he knew. Still, he didn't understand why it told him to flee not just from the angels but from Dean. When all it did was to make Castiel turn away from anything celestial, and run from anyone Castiel perceived as divine.

Slowly, Castiel's fingers twist into the fabric of Dean's shirt. He pulls him forward until Dean's breath hits his mouth, until he can hear the hitch in Dean's breathing. Until he can see the light behind Dean's eyes from up close. He thinks he can even taste it when he presses his mouth against Dean's, warmth tingling through him and igniting him from inside. Dean shudders against him, makes a quiet sound between a moan and a sigh, presses back. The hold of his fingers tightens around Castiel's, roots of warmth reaching softly for the sky.


End file.
